The Ride to Imladris
by Brandytook
Summary: Well, this is my 'Ode to Boromir,' if that sounds at all pretentious . . . I suppose it is. Anyway, the fic is much more down to earth than this synopsis--I hope. Pretty please read and review!


Boromir cast a last longing look over his shoulder and the plains that stretched out around him. Minas Tirith lay behind, gleaming in the sunset, red and yellow highlights playing across the city's white stone walls.  
He was leaving. Leaving his home, his land, the place that needed his protection most. Leaving for Imaladris, a place that was only vaguely marked on most Gondorian maps, a home of the elves, the elves who held themselves so aloof from the doings of Gondor and Rohan. There were stories of great alliances between men and elves, stories Boromir knew were based in fact, but those times had faded away. There were no more great alliances. The elves hid in their halls and sailed away across the sea; ran from Middle-Earth and a fight that belonged as much to them as to men, but that was not why he was going to Imladris; he was not going as an emissary, bearing a last call to arms. He was going to have a question answered, that was all.  
Sighing, he nudged his horse--Ertay--into a trot, heading North-West, a general direction; no one seemed to know exactly where Imladris lay. It was over the Misty Mountains, near Hollin, that was as specific as anyone got. And yet, he was going there; leaving to keep his brother from making the journey. There were other reasons, but none so important.  
He wished he had not told his father of the dream. If he had not he would still be home, ready to defend Osigilliath and Minas Tirith. But no, he was going away. Going to find the answer to a riddle that he doubted had an answer, or even meant anything at all.  
He'd never taken much stock in dreams. Preferring to trust what he could see with his waking eyes and feel with his own two hands. Dreams were Faramir's territory. But Boromir could not let Faramir ride to Imladris alone and Boromir knew that if no one went to at least try and find out what the dream meant that Faramir would, he would take a horse and leave. Boromir could not let him do that, even if it meant he had to abandon his home land. He shook his head angrily, he was not abandoning it! He would be back, with any luck, in time to still make a difference.  
He pushed Ertay to an even faster pace. What he wanted was to get this horrible duty done with as soon as possible and then return, with or without an answer; then he could at least say he tried. And if that was not enough then . . . then he didn't know what and at the moment he was in too foul a mood too care.  
  
*  
  
Boromir eventually stopped for the night, more because he knew he could not continue to push Ertay like this than because he himself was tired. He was, but that made little difference, he would ride for days in a row if he did not know it would kill his horse, that would significantly slow his speed and he wanted all the speed he could get. He wanted to be finished, to be home where he knew he was doing good, instead of journeying pointlessly to no obvious and helpful goal.  
He quickly staked Ertay, gathered wood, started a fire and laid out his bed roll. Rummaging through the saddle bags he pulled out a hunk of bread and some dried venison, he looked at it vacantly, he was not really hungry, none the less he forced it down, reminding himself with every bite that he would do whatever it took to reach Imladris as soon as possible.  
He stared into the fire, his mind wandering aimlessly. He shouldn't let it do that, it always ended up somewhere he didn't want it to be. At the moment, he couldn't think of any place he did want it. His thoughts were all dark and dour. There was little to look forward to, little to think about that wouldn't drive him even further into despair.  
He sifted through memory, thought and feeling while the fire's tendrils of flame reached skyward, Boromir could almost see lost friends and comrades in the sparks.  
He wanted desperately to sleep, to forget the idiocy and horror that seemed to be encroaching on all sides.  
Boromir could still see his brother as he had ridden away, he had been able tell that Faramir had been schooling his thoughts, trying to let only grim encouragement show on his face.  
Big B, that's what Faramir used to call him and still did in ever fleeting moments of vulnerability. Boromir didn't remember where the nickname came from, he knew it had thrown Denethor into a fit of rage to hear Faramir use any such endearments though and Faramir had quickly learned to use it rarely and unobtrusively.  
Boromir had flourished under Denethor's firm hand, Boromir's anger and frustration at Denethor forcing him to exceed Denethor's demands. Faramir had not been the fighting type; he had struggled so hard for praise and received so little. It had, in the end, caused him to grow into a fighter almost on par with Boromir though. Boromir remembered the endless practice sessions they'd shared, the countless times since their mother had died that they had spent an afternoon together hiding from their father's wrath.  
Boromir's mind took a sharp turn and he wondered vaguely what Lord Elrond was like, he had not met him, but he'd heard more than enough stories and met a few elves in his life time. He was already sure that he would not like him; he was--in Boromir's mind--one of the causes for Gondor's problems. He was a leader of elves, he had faced Sauron in all his might, he should know of the danger that was returning, he should know that it had to be fought, and quickly before Sauron could regain his former power.  
Boromir almost smiled as he realized the only reason he knew any of this was because of Faramir, he was the one who had paid attention to their history lessons, who had actually studied on his own and who had shared-- with a joyful gleam in his eye--everything that he discovered with Boromir.  
On rainy days when Boromir could think of nothing else to do, Faramir would drag him to the musty old library of Minas Tirith. Pulling books and scrolls and single sheets of parchment from boxes and shelves he had not yet visited, he would drop them into Boromir's arms and then lead him over to a table, where he'd spread everything out, organizing it chronologically, or alphabetically, or by region, or race and then unhappy he would reorganize it until it was finally in the order he wished to read it in. His head would bow over the table, hazel hair cascading across his face. He would remain almost immobile like that until something excited him, then he would leap up, parchment in hand and run to Boromir's side.  
"Look! Look!" he'd shout, drawing Boromir out of his imaginary battles to show him proof that their tutor had gotten something wrong. Boromir would smile and then return to the armies he marshaled in his head, wishing for the rain to stop.  
There were times when Boromir had to carry carried Faramir out of the library for he would fall asleep, his head pillowed on a book  
Faramir always woke the next morning angry, he would run back down to the table he'd fallen asleep over, to find that the librarian had put everything back; and since the librarian changed his mind on how to order things as often as Faramir did, it was rare the books would be found again.  
Sometimes he would not talk to Boromir for days after such a thing happened. Boromir would just shake his head and return to his own pursuits. He would not have guessed then that those memories might someday be cherished.  
  
*  
  
The next morning Boromir woke with memories of his and Faramir's fights. They still made him cringe inside, they had had such a small group of people to relay on and Faramir had needed all the support he could get. He'd been such a frail child. The memories of their fights were not something Boromir wished to dwell on, the times Boromir had tormented Faramir just because he could, because he was bigger, or the times he'd done it to please their father, for Denethor's believed it made him stronger.  
Boromir hated the idea that he'd ever done anything to harm his brother. Whether it had been placing blame on Faramir or stealing something from him, Boromir had been adept at making Faramir's life miserable, and Faramir loved him still.  
One time leapt to the fore front of his mind. The two of them had been sparring with some of Denethor's finest swords, arguing over which they would use when they fought in a real battle. Boromir had gotten carried away and pushed against Faramir with all his strength. He'd knocked him to the ground and Faramir's sword had flown from his hand, skittered across the floor and fallen from one of the balconies. It had dented on the flagstones many floors below and Faramir had badly twisted his ankle badly.  
Boromir didn't even remember how he had twisted his words, he knew Denethor had wanted to blame Faramir and Boromir was willing to let him. He could though still hear Faramir's sobs that night as he had lain attempting to fall asleep though.  
Trying to forget--if only for a little while--he pushed his mind to a path of anger, frustration at everyone who seemed blind to the fact that Sauron was coming.  
Boromir's anger helped him through breaking up his meager camp and the first half hour's ride. But it couldn't keep the despair away forever.  
So many senseless deaths. They needed another defense, a weapon, something that would make an outright attack on the enemy feasible. He would return to Gondor to find so many more dead and he wouldn't have been there to fight by their side. He was running! Even if he was being forced to run against his will. Running, just like the elves. It was driving him to madness! He was the steward's son! He should be able to affect Middle- Earth's future somehow, he should be able to rally the forces of the west for the last great battle. Even if they could not defeat Sauron they could die as men, not slaves. They could fight him to the bitter end.  
That was what they should be doing, meeting Sauron head on. And instead they waited for him to come to them. They waited and marshaled forces that would do nothing in the end.  
Boromir rode on, oblivious to the landscape around him, focused so entirely on his people's misgivings and faults that he could not see their strengths.  
  
*  
  
It took Boromir a hundred and ten days to find Imladris and not one went by without him thinking of the fact that he was not home, not one went by when he did not wonder who had died while he was gone.  
He was forcing himself to remember the good times as he finally approached Imladris, remembering when he and his men had won skirmishes with orcs. They had celebrated as only tired and worn men who knew they were soon bound for home can.  
They had sung songs and talked till the western sky lightened, eating and drinking all that was not needed for the journey to where ever they would next be sent.  
He remembered the battles where few had died, where he felt like they had made a difference, the times they had driven the orcs back and away from the people of Gondor. His battalion could fight and they knew how to celebrate their fighting.  
He tried not to wonder how many of them would be dead by the time he returned home. Now he was going to remember the joyous times, he was going to fight for them how ever he could. Imladris was before him, he was halfway home. 


End file.
